


sweet relief

by wellhellofuture



Category: Chef RPF
Genre: Claire really hates being cold, F/M, a lil sexual tension in the workplace never killed anyone, chris morocco is a mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21689488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellhellofuture/pseuds/wellhellofuture
Summary: Or, the one where Claire forgot to stretch and Brad is just being helpful, okay?
Relationships: Brad Leone & Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 22
Kudos: 74





	sweet relief

**Author's Note:**

> so, I blame @queenofthecon and the discord channel, because w/o them i would've never written anything about these lovely humans.
> 
> that being said - this is not real. let them live their lives, do not share, yadda yadda. i get it, we're all trash, it's fine.
> 
> remember the rules of the club, peeps.

Winter in New York is undeniably beautiful.

The trees get a lovely coating of powdery-white snow every few days, and as much as she complains about the salt-saturated slush that ruins her favorite leather boots, Claire Saffitz can’t help but love the magic of the soft quiet that takes over the city that never sleeps when it snows.

What she doesn’t love? The cold. It makes her teeth ache and her nose go numb and is altogether unpleasant. She simply can’t abide by treadmills, though, and there’s not a nearby gym with an indoor track, so she tells herself that she has to go run outside at least three times a week, no matter what the temperature.

She really, really hates the cold.

The first real biting day of the year hits in early January. When her alarm goes off, she bundles up in her normal fleece-lined leggings and double layers of coats and earmuffs, but with her first step outside her apartment complex her eyes start to water.

Normally, she’s stringent to the point of OCD about warmups, but this morning - when her fingers feel like they’re about to fall off after less than a minute outside - she settles for a few calf pulls and heads off. Once she gets music going and the blood pumping through her veins, it’s not all that bad, and Central Park is especially gorgeous in the crisp morning air. Still, she’s grateful when she makes it inside after a couple of miles and enjoys the longest, steamiest shower she thinks she’s ever taken.

Screw her water bill this month. It’s worth it to be able to feel her extremities again.

The next morning, though, she wakes up before her alarm, which is most definitely unlike her. She reaches for her phone on the bedside table to check the alarm (had she accidentally snoozed it again?) only to cry out when spasms of pain twinge across her lower back. 

Every inch of movement that it takes to crawl her way out of bed has her wincing; by the time she’s finally able to prop herself to a sitting position, she’s short of breath and feels like crying. She picks her way to the bathroom, where she’s got some topical analgesic buried somewhere in her cabinet from when she pulled a muscle making Mentos for Gourmet Makes a few months ago. Even reaching into the cabinet makes her back spasm, so she takes care to throw her bottle of extra-strength painkillers into her bag as she leaves for work.

Taking the stairs down to street level is challenging, but by the time she arrives at the test kitchen, the muscle relaxing cream has kicked in and her pain pills have dulled the ache deep in her back. It isn’t until almost everyone else is gone on their lunch break that she leans over her bench for particularly detailed cookie decorations and groans under her breath at the unbearable stretch in her sore muscles. She tries to stand back up straight, but the more she moves the worse it gets, so she props herself on her elbows and tries to breathe through the pain.

“Everything okay, Half-Sour?” comes a voice from her shoulder. She can’t exactly see who it is, her eyes are screwed shut in discomfort, but she can feel it’s Brad.

“Hand me my bag, will you, please?” she grits out as a reply. “It’s over there on the counter.”

She senses a rush of air as Brad pushes himself off the counter and dutifully fetches the bag. She digs for her pills and shakes a couple into her palm, then dry-swallows them with a grimace. She can’t even turn her head to face him, her back is so tight, and she heaves a sigh as she shifts her weight to try to alleviate the pressure.

“I think I pulled a muscle in my back,” she explains. “I was too cold to warm up for my run yesterday, and I didn’t take the time to stretch out afterwards, so I woke up super tight this morning.”

Brad, who has made his way around the bench so he can look her in the eye, goes a little pink at the double entendre in her answer. Claire doesn’t notice, though, breathing deep through her nose as she waits for the medicine to kick in. Brad crouches down to be at her level, nearly lays himself across the workspace, and props his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry to hear that. You know what ya need, Claire? A massager,” he says matter-of-factly. “Got one for Dirty Santa last year and let-me-tell-you, game changer right there.”

“Yeah?” she says, distracted. She’s counting the little specks in the granite countertop to keep her mind off the discomfort. She's nearly at two hundred when Brad slaps his hand down on the counter and she loses her train of thought.

“Honestly, Claire, ya look horrible. But just hang in there, Brad to the rescue.” He trots over to the cabinet where they keep the oils and flavorings for Gourmet Makes and Claire feels a stab of jealousy as he smoothly squats down to the floor without any hesitation. He rattles around in the depths of the cabinet for a moment and she has the fleeting thought that Hunzi needs to be here to add the crash-bang-meow sequence that follows Brad everywhere in his videos. A few seconds later, Brad’s beanie-clad head pops back out, his big hands cradling a tiny bottle.

“Just relax,” he instructs her as he walks over. He cracks the top off the bottle and the herbal smell of eucalyptus floats over to her nostrils.

“Brad - what - “

Before she can realize what he’s planned, Brad’s warm, calloused hands are untying her apron and hiking up her sweater. 

“Hey, wait, no - you don’t have to do that,” she protests weakly, torn between impropriety in the workplace and the temptation to have some relief from the pain firing up her spine.

“Shh, Saffitz, lemme help,” he says, and she can’t bring herself to stop him. She hears the slick slide of his palms as he warms the oil, then she kind of whites out a little when he puts his hands on her.

“Ohhhhh,” she groans, letting her head fall forward to get a bit of stretch in her spinal column. His hands are big and warm and sure, and his thumbs trace the taught muscles along her lower back.

“Here?” he asks, digging in a little harder right above her hips. It hurts a bit, yeah, but the immense pressure eases a bit with every long swipe up her back.

“Mmm, yeah,” she breathes out, “More, please.” He understands, like she knows he would, and really puts some elbow grease into the next couple of circles. He’s careful not to put too much of his weight on her, afraid of making it worse, and steps up right between her extended legs to have better control.

His hands slip a touch lower down her spine and hit a particularly sore spot, though she doesn’t know if the guttural moan that escapes her is from the pressure on her back or the brush of Brad’s fingers along the waistline of her jeans.

“Yeah?” he whispers, then digs into that spot again. “Geez, Claire, you’ve got a serious knot back here.” She feels more than hears his fingers pop against her skin as he applies even more firm touches. It’s exactly the spot that’s been bothering her all morning, and she literally cannot help herself from releasing the pent-up tension in a long, low exhale.

“Bra-a-ad,” she groans, rolls her hips backwards towards his hands, but suddenly his hands are gone. Her skin is cold and clammy without his touch.

There’s an awkward, forced cough near the door, and Claire looks up to see Chris raising an eyebrow at them. She can only imagine how they look, her bent over the workbench and Brad standing behind her, but she doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed.

“I pulled a muscle,” she says tiredly, wanting nothing more than to collapse into a puddle at the floor and maybe have Brad rub her back for the rest of her life.

“Uh huh,” Chris replies, disbelief written all over his face. “I can come back, give you two a minute..?”

Brad claps his hands together, makes her jump a bit.

“Whaddya mean, Morocco? Just helpin’ Claire out a lil, nothin’ to it at all. What’re ya workin’ on now, bud, more pie?”

Claire considers it a testament to her pain levels that she’s not the least bit concerned about Chris stumbling in on them, not when the alternative is having Brad work her over like that again. It’s smart pain management, that’s all.

Truly.

She makes it through to the end of the day without another session from her on-call masseuse, much to her disappointment, though the lingering smell of eucalyptus follows her around the kitchen all day. She heads home early, eager to get back to her muscle relaxer and heating pads, but takes the time on her way out to tap Brad on the shoulder.

“Thanks, for earlier. You have no idea - you really saved me,” she says softly, earnestly.

He bumps her shoulder gently, smiles down at her. “Anything for the real star of the kitchen.” 

They exchange warm smiles for a touch too long before she gathers her coat and scarf to venture out into the cold.

By the time she gets home, she’s achy again, and no matter how many hot pads she heats up she can’t seem to get comfy on the couch. She remembers Brad’s advice from earlier, and since he obviously seems to have some experience in the massage department, she shoots him a quick text.

“back is still sore. any ideas where i’d find a massager like you mentioned?”

A few minutes later, her phone beeps twice in quick succession.

“replacing me already? harsh.

but seriously, amazon. 2 day prime shipping !! :)”

She sends him back a thumbs-up emoji and opens her web browser. A quick search of “personal massager” yields 20,000 results, most of which appear to be vibrators, but she finds one for a reasonable forty-five dollars that is rechargeable and has an extension so she can reach her back. The reviews are pretty favorable, only a few saying that they received the wrong attachments, but that customer service was more than helpful. Two quick clicks later and it’s on its way to her with expedited overnight shipping. Unfortunately, the confirmation email that appears in her inbox within seconds has the wrong address; she’s used her Amazon account to order things for Gourmet Makes before, and the default address is set for the World Trade Center, but she supposes she can show Brad at work tomorrow that she took his advice.

Unbelievably, the next morning her back is even worse - when she tries to get out of bed, her muscles scream in agony, and she knows that she’ll be worthless in the kitchen today. She texts Gaby, who tells her to try rubbing ginger on the knots, then pops a few pain pills and promptly falls back asleep.

She’s rudely awoken some hours later by her phone buzzing in her ear.

“Claire!” comes Brad’s voice when she answers. “Where ya at? There’s a box here for ya!”

Oh, yeah, right. She’d forgotten. She pushes herself up in bed a little and settles against the pillows with a sigh.

“Hey, Brad. Did Gaby not tell you? My back’s worse today. I didn’t even know that was possible,” she whines. 

“Oh, that’s the worst, sorry,” he seems distracted. “But what’s in the box?”

She can’t help but chuckle.

“I took your advice. Ordered a massager on Amazon last night and paid extra for overnight delivery. Kinda wish I had it here, now that you mention it.”

“Well, silly goose, why’d ya send it here then?” She can hear him grinning over the phone and rolls her eyes even though he can’t see.

“It was an accident, Brad,” she explains.

“‘Course, ‘course.” He clears his throat. “D’ya…d’ya want me to run it by on my way home? Need anything else?”

It occurs to her that he’s already decided to bring it by, and also that her apartment is definitely not on his way, but sue her, she’s desperate and in pain.

“That would actually be fantastic, Brad, you’re a lifesaver. No pressure though, don’t worry about it if you can’t make it happen.”

“I’ll be there after five,” he promises before hanging up, and she knows he means it.

She manages to move herself to the couch and spends the rest of the day dozing and watching reruns of GBBO on Netflix. She’s just at Cake Week when there’s a rat-a-tat-tat on her door.

“It’s open,” she calls, and hears the door swing wide.

“Claire! How ya feelin’, bud?” Brad bounds into the living room, box in hands, and unceremoniously perches himself on the arm of her sofa. He smells like chocolate and spice and cold, and she’s tempted to cuddle in close and just breathe him in. But that would be wildly inappropriate.

“Brought ya somethin,’” he continues, and digs in his backpack for a moment. He emerges with a slightly squashed white bakery bag, which he proudly presents to her. She catches a whiff of warm, buttery pastry and sweet almond and her eyes go wide.

“Did you get me an almond croissant from Boulud?!” she gasps. “How - they always sell out by, like, ten!”

He gives her that half-smile that he does when he’s really proud of himself and trying not to let it show. 

“I may have bribed the owner with some homemade mustard. He was more than happy to help a fellow baker infirm.”

She peels off a tiny bite and closes her eyes as she chews, letting the butter-rich flake dissolve on her tongue. Somehow she manages to resist stuffing the whole thing in her mouth and gently sets it on the table for a snack later.

“Thank you, Brad, I needed that,” she says sincerely. “You’ve been so sweet the past couple of days.”

He brushes her off, claims “It’s part of my job to keep everyone happy, Claire,” even though it most certainly is not, but she takes a little pleasure at seeing his cheeks flush pink at the compliment. He seems to remember why he’d come in the first place, though, and rattles the box excitedly.

“Let’s see what kinda model ya got!” he says, whipping out his pocket knife and cleanly slicing through the tape. Claire reaches for the package, bends the flaps back, peels off a layer of packing paper, and freezes.

She distinctly recalls the model she’d ordered: white and gray, with a long arm and several different heads for various purposes and locations on the body. A benign, neutral, all-purpose massager. 

Most definitely not the ten-inch, bright purple, ribbed vibrating wand that stares back at her from its box.

Brad’s view has been sort of blocked by the excess paper, so he leans in close to see, then he goes still too.

“Uh, Claire, you didn’t tell me it was that kind of personal massager,” he says awkwardly.

“It wasn’t supposed to be!” she cries, fishing for her phone in the mounds of blankets on her sofa. “Look!” She points to her confirmation email, and sure enough, the white and gray model is pictured on the screen. “It must have been a mistake,” she adds weakly, equal parts embarrassed and disappointed. She really could’ve used that back massage, especially since her stash of Tylenol is running low.

She stuffs the packing paper back on top of the offensive toy. “Guess I’ll have to call customer service tomorrow,” she says, deflated. She extends her reach to slide the box onto the table and can’t hide a wince at the pull in her back.

“Still hurts, yeah?” Brad asks, gentler than she expects.

“Yeah,” she admits, heaving a sigh. “I was really hoping for that to help tonight,” she says sadly, gesturing towards the abandoned device. “Sorry to make you trek all the way out here for no reason.”

To her surprise, Brad tosses his coat onto her armchair and toes off his shoes instead of heading for the door like she’d expected. He reaches for his bag and digs in the side pocket for a long moment.

“I brought ya somethin’ else,” he admits, fishing out the little eucalyptus bottle from the day before. “Worked yesterday, huh? Whaddya say?”

Her first instinct is to flip over onto her front and say yes immediately; she’s flooded with sensory memories of his warm hands and the bone-deep relaxation his fingers had produced. Then she’s wracked with a wave of guilt; it’s one thing to be surprised and acquiesce, like she was yesterday. It’s entirely another to be a willing instigator.

Brad must see the war playing out in her head because he stands and offers her a hand. “C’mon, Saffitz, you’re obviously hurtin’ and you know I can help. Quit overanalyzin’ for just one second and let me help you.”

In the end, she relents, and has to let Brad half-carry her up off the sofa to an upright position. She knows she must look crazy, sweats all in disarray and hair in a frizzy halo around her hair, but she’s pretty sure Brad couldn’t care less.

They stand in her hallway and stare at each other for a long moment before she cuts her eyes away to the ground to break the spell.

“Where’s - I mean, how - where should we do this,” she finishes lamely. Brad shrugs.

“Bed’s probably best,” he says mildly. “No way in hell I’m crouchin’ down over the sofa, then we’ll both have back problems. Not really sure bendin’ ya over the counter was the best angle either. Probably strains your muscles more than helps.”

Her mouth goes dry first at the thought of Brad pressing her into the countertops in her kitchen, then at the idea of letting him into her room, her personal haven, but she brings herself to nod and head down the hall. He trails behind like a puppy, hand ghosting over her back as she turns the knob.

She kicks herself for not making her bed, but there was no way in hell she’d ever expected today to end up like this, with Brad Leone following her into her bedroom. She turns around to ask him where to lay and finds him carefully rolling up the sleeves of his button-down, and she sucks in a quick breath. This feels like a bad idea, she thinks, but then Brad looks up and gives her the brightest smile that she can’t stop herself.

He eyes her critically.

“Whaddya got under that sweatshirt?” he asks without preamble.

“Excuse me?!”

“Calm down, Half-Sour, just tryin’ to keep from stainin’ your clothes. Keep ‘em on if ya want, don't matter to me.”

He has a point, and she is wearing her favorite pale blue sweatshirt, plus she has a full-coverage sports bra underneath, so she takes a deep breath and peels the thing up over her shoulders. She gets a little stuck in her haste, though, arms refusing to bend backwards to get it over her head. She struggles for a moment, then feels Brad’s hands deftly pluck the material out of her grasp and ease her head through the fabric. He brushes his fingers over her cheekbones as he does so, and whether he means to or not, Claire can’t help the shiver that goes through her.

When the shirt clears her field of vision, Claire blinks to adjust to the light finds Brad standing less than a foot away, staring down at her with an unreadable expression in her eyes. She feels her breath become shallow and turns towards the bed to avoid an unfortunate situation with her bra in Brad’s line of view.

“Here okay?” she asks, voice muffled by a pillow as she arranges herself facedown on the bed, arms lax at her sides. She hears Brad clear his throat.

“Hm? Yeah, fine,” he replies, evidently fiddling with the oil. She’s shocked when she feels his knee dip into the mattress, heavy and firm; she’d expected him to stand at her side or something, but in hindsight she realizes their height difference is just too great. He seems to hesitate, then swings his right leg over top of her to hover just above her bottom.

“This okay?” he asks gruffly, hands poised over her bare back.

“Mhmm,” she manages, eyes squeezed tight in the protection of the downy white pillowcase.

Her breathing quickens as he warms the oil between his palms, then she gives a deep sigh when he presses down, solid and warm, into the small of her back.

“Tell me if the pressure’s not right,” he instructs, then sets himself to his task single-mindedly.

He starts off slow, thumbs tracing up and down her spinal column, concentrating down low where she’d ached yesterday. Gradually, he pushes harder, uses his knuckles to draw deep circles in the dips between her hips and waist. Claire’s world narrows to the feel of his hands on her, smooth and rhythmic; if she focuses, she can almost feel the individual creases of his palms and the whisper of hair as his wrists twist and turn.

“Better?” he whispers, voice barely carrying over the gentle rub of his skin on hers.

“Mmm,” is all she can respond, caught in the vague medium between sleep and awareness. In all honesty, she’d taken her last dose of Tylenol just before he’d arrived, and the relief in her muscles is probably more due to that than his back rub, but the feeling of his hands cycling up and down her back is too exquisite to ask him to stop.

With every circle, his reach goes slightly higher and wider, until he’s encompassing most of her exposed back on each swath of pressure. The heels of his hands dance at the band of her leggings and the tips of his fingers skirt over the edge of her bra, and she flushes hot when she feels the first clenches of arousal deep inside her. He starts to linger near the peak and valley of his pattern, fingers tracing the line of her bra and rubbing small figure eights into the band of flesh above her waistband. She sighs, more relaxed than she’s ever remembered, and arches her hips into the touch without consciously deciding to do so.

Brad has evidently widened his stance on the bed, because when her lower body tilts up, her ass makes contact with his center. He lets out a harsh breath through his nose but doesn’t shy away from the pressure, yet doesn’t follow the path of her hips back down to the mattress. She knows she should write it off as an accident, an uncontrollable reflex to the pressure on her spine, but a part of her just wants more, more, more.

So she tentatively tries again - lifts her pelvic bone when he leans ever so slightly forward on the upstroke - and is rewarded with searing-hot friction between them. This time, she doesn’t pull fully away, just settles into a steady rocking motion with his hips and hands in unison. With each press of their bodies, she becomes further aware of how he wants her; he’s rigid beneath his jeans, but doesn’t push, doesn’t force her down into the mattress to grind against her. It’s this restraint and blatant respect for her that drives her a little bit insane, makes her wonder what it’ll take to make him crack, so she curls her back even more concave on the next round and feels him shudder in response.

To her dismay, he stills above her, fingers tracing idle patterns down her sides. Somewhere along the line he’s forgone all pretext of therapeutic massage.

“What are we doin’, Claire?” he asks, and oh god she’s never heard his voice like this, low and gravelly and utterly wrecked, and she’s helpless to stop the shiver that races down her spine. 

Hiding her face in the pillow makes her bold, makes her say things she could never utter to his face, especially when she’s not half-drunk on the feel of his skin on hers.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, soft but firm, and she hears him exhale long and slow. He settles his hands at the small of her back once more and she thinks for a second he’ll ignore her, but then he follows their slide up her torso with his own body. By the time he reaches the top, he’s nearly draped over top of her, mouth hovering at her jaw.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs, but Claire can’t think of anything in the world she wants less than him stopping anything and simply rolls her hips in response.

His lips brush over the shell of her ear and warm breath gusts over her collarbone as his hands slide up and over her bra to settle on the pillow, one on each side of her throat.

(And that’s definitely something to file away for later, how her pulse quickens and breath shortens at the slight pressure of his hands near her neck, but she’s distracted by the press of his lips to her pulse.)

With him covering her like this, his smell - a little sweet, a little spicy, one hundred percent Brad - wraps around her, fills her with a sense of familiarity and longing. She’s tamped down the flutters in her stomach and the longing in her heart for far too long and feeling him like this, hovering above her, is just too much. She needs to see him, prove to herself that it’s really happening.

When he feels her stir beneath him, he stills, pulls back to give her room. She twists her hips and he immediately lifts up, leaving her free to move but regretting the loss of his solid weight over her.

“Hi,” she breathes when the flips over. His eyes are glassy, but surveying her, like he’s fighting the fog of lust to make sure she’s okay. Her heart, impossibly full of love for this man, thuds loudly in her chest. He’s lost his beanie somewhere, hair wild and free, and she traces up his arms (strong, firm, gentle) to skate her fingers through the mess of curls adorning his head. Her hand slips down to cradle his chin and she boldly brushes a thumb over his lips. He responds by ducking down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her wrist, then flicks his eyes up to hers.

“Where’re we goin’?” he murmurs against her, runs a tongue over her pulse beating just under her skin. She takes a breath, steels her nerves.

“I want you,” is her simple answer, bottom lip worried between her teeth.

“Jesus,” he swears, drops his head forward. When he looks up, his eyes are molten, blown wide and black even in the hazy light of her bedroom. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve thought about you sayin’ that.”

His blatant affection warms her all the way through, makes her bold and reckless.

“What’re you gonna do about it then?” she whispers, scratching blunt nails over the nape of his neck. With a growl, she gets her answer.

Brad surges forward, touches his lips to hers in a searing kiss, leaves her breathless and wanting in a matter of seconds. He tastes of maple and ginger and something deeper, darker, that she instantly knows is pure him.

For someone who literally makes a living for being all over the place, Brad kisses with single-minded focus. He kisses like she’s the center of his world, like there’s nothing he wants more than to drown himself in her mouth. When she finally breaks away, gasping, he just traces a damp line down her jaw to suck a purple mark into the hollow of her throat. The idea of it thrills her, having to hide how he’s marked her, and she lets out a breathy moan into his ear.

He allows himself to settle fully over her, hips forcing her down into the mattress in a heady rush of heat and friction. Experimentally, she hooks an ankle over his thigh and surges up to meet him, and she’s thrilled by the harsh breaths he pants into her jaw.

“How - how far - “ he tries to grit out, and she cuts him off with a hand over his mouth. He reflexively drops a kiss to her palm, making her smile, but she has other plans.

“Shut up and kiss me,” she orders, and pulls him down to her once more.

Later, when they’re both gasping and rocking into one another, his face buried into her shoulder and her nails scratching red streaks down his back, Claire thinks that she is quite possibly the luckiest woman alive, pulled back muscle and all.

***

The next week, Molly brings in a diffuser and an assortment of essential oils to “cleanse the energy” of the test kitchen. When her first selection is eucalyptus, Claire cuts Brad a secret smile.

“Hey, Brad, I tried to find some disinfectant earlier today and I think the cleaning closet is out. Will you come look with me?”

“Hm? Didja try - oh, wait. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll - I’m right behind you,” he says, shoving his bowl unceremoniously into the fridge.

They pointedly ignore the looks they get when they return some half an hour later, flushed and giggly and smelling of Pine Sol.

For their first anniversary, Brad gives her an actual personal massager, which she promptly casts aside in favor of her own private masseuse.

**Author's Note:**

> again, respect the rules of RPF club. fiction means fiction, no matter who it's about.
> 
> feed \back\ is appreciated! (lmao get it)


End file.
